


Theif

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Female Legolas, Ficlet, Light Bondage, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas is drawn to one of her prisoners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theif

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “fem!Legolas [...] Legolas being curious and enthralled with all that muscle is just fabulous. Any setting, just give me Legolas getting the D” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21870059#t21870059).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s entirely too easy to steal the keys from under Old Galion’s nose. She could simply ask for them, of course, but then he’d ask questions, and she’d be too ashamed to give the answers. Legolas still has _some_ pride. She just has a healthy amount of curiosity, too, and the sole treasures of the Greenwood aren’t as captivating as they used to be. 

_Dwarves_ are an entirely new entity. She knows enough about them, of course. She knows that her father loathes them, and she’s loyal to that to some extent, but the stories never quite prepared her for the real thing. Not for these particular real things, anyway. Or at least for one of them. 

One dwarf catches her eye, and though she bemoans Tauriel for public fraternizing, she still slips into his cell herself. She twists the old key silently around the lock, draws the bars wide and disappears inside them, closing it all again like nothing there has changed. 

She turns to the back of the cell, where the lone dwarf’s head has lifted, his arms tied behind him around a metal stake in the ground. He put up the most fuss when they caged him, though none of them would be caged in the first place if they could just _behave_. Legolas knows her father is difficult, but he’s no tyrant. And the prisoners are treated well: they’ve all been fed and cared for.

This one still looks wary, as he should. She half expects him to scream in alarm, which would force her to bolt before any witnesses arrive. But he growls quietly, “What do you want?”

She isn’t sure of that herself. Childish rebellion, perhaps. Fear of never getting another chance like this again. Desire, which is harder to admit, for a short, dark stranger with muscles twice as big as hers and shoulders so broad she could ride them. His bald head glistens on the side where the moonlight creeps in behind her, his thick mustache and beard swallowed up in shadows. He’s been stripped of his outer layers, like most of them—mostly because of hidden weaponry—and the thin fabric that’s left is stretched taut around his bulging biceps and his protruding pecs. Right down to his boots, he’s a heavy thing. And that shouldn’t attract her, _but it does_.

Yet his gruff tone makes her lift an eyebrow and muse, “Is that how you talk to a princess?”

Some princess, sneaking about the dungeons in the dead of night. Still, she likes to hold _some_ respect. The dwarf snorts, noting, “You have princes locked in this dungeon, _princess_. Is that how you treat them?”

Legolas didn’t even know that. But she doesn’t let the knowledge change her face; dwarf princes are no concern of hers, and _this_ is the one she’s interested in. The rest are in her father’s keep. Her eyes stay trained on him, at first his handsome face, then up the intricate patterns inked across his skull. She’s down to his chiseled chest, so thickly developed that his nipples make dents in the material, when he makes a snickering noise. She darts back to his face and finds a smirk twisting his wide lips, making the scruff of his mustache lift. Hushed, he says, “Oh. _That’s_ what you want.”

Hiding her embarrassment, she asks a haughty, “What?” And she hopes he’ll be wrong. 

But he’s smarter than he looks, and drawls through his thick, foreign accent, “You want a _real_ man—not one of these skinny elf twinks.” It makes her stiffen. He _knows_ how he looks. He probably has a wife at home. Or two or three, if the rumours of dwarves are correct. They’re supposed to be quite... _virile._

She admits, still trying to be aloof, “I thought all dwarves were fat and lazy.”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of fat,” the dwarf answers, before glancing down his body, nothing but hard, thick rock. “...But this one’s all muscle, little lady.”

She catches herself tracing her teeth with her tongue. She’s hardly little, standing tall above him, but in _girth_ , he has her more than beat. He looks like he could lift her entire body in one palm. While she watches him, her mind running places it shouldn’t, the dwarf says, “Dwalin.” At Legolas’ confused look, he clarifies, “My name, if you’ll have it. And who might you be, princess?”

He must’ve been too busy fighting to catch it earlier. She hesitates but tells him, “Legolas.”

He repeats, “ _Legolas_ ,” in something half a growl, half a purr. It sounds _rough_ , like the rest of him looks, and she can’t help but entertain the fantasy of if their positions were reversed. If she was his prisoner, perhaps she wouldn’t have to struggle with this—he’d simply _take her_ , hard against the wall or the stone floor, and she’d get to feel those rippling muscles atop her and a thick Dwarven cock, filling her more than any elf ever could. He’d probably know just what to do with it, too. He looks like an animal with no decorum—he probably takes his partners hard and fast and leaves bruises in his wake, making sure they’ll always remember him. 

A shiver runs through Legolas’ body, and she crosses her arms over her small chest, looking away. Dwalin tempts her quietly, “Was I right, Legolas? Is that why you snuck into my cell like a thief in the night?” She bristles at the label but says nothing. He’s right, but she doesn’t want to say it. He shifts his weight, drawing her eyes back, and he leans his head against the cavern wall, stretching his arms, still bound at the wrists. She thinks of unclasping him, perhaps dragging him up to her rooms, chaining him anew to the post of her bed. Her father has a dozen dwarves; he shouldn’t notice or care if one goes missing, though Tauriel would tirelessly search the entire kingdom if she lost a charge. Perhaps if Legolas offered her a night with Dwalin, she would understand...

Dwalin says, “I’ll give it to you, if you like. And I don’t ask for much in return.”

“If you ask anything, you are as foolish as elves think you,” Legolas volleys, worried—her resolve is crumbling. “It is not my place to free you—”

“I don’t ask that,” Dwalin chuckles, cutting her right off. “I’m old enough to know how these things work, lass. But it isn’t me I’m worried about. If you tell me news of Thorin and promise to keep me apprised of his well being, I’ll give you anything your pretty little head can concoct. You don’t even have to loosen these chains—I can please you well enough like this.”

The strange thing is that she suspects he can. She still means to say _no._

But she bends down, perching on her feet with her knees bent, eye level. She can smell the musk of him, dirty and unwashed, but strangely appealing nonetheless: like animal pheromones calling out to a mate, boasting: _this one’s nothing but masculine, if you like that._

She does. She does _want him._ She wants his hard lines and his too-big nose and the jagged cut of his jaw, hidden under so much scruff. But most of all, she wants to feel _full of him_ , and when he murmurs, “Come here,” she obeys. 

She leans forward, head tilting, and she lets him rise up to meet her. His chapped lips brush along her smooth ones, his nose digging into her cheek and his mustache tickling her, his beard scratching her bare chin. It’s light, at first: a mere experiment. But then she feels the hungry swipe of his tongue, and she finds herself opening, offering him entrance. He takes it, plunging deep inside. 

His kiss is nearly ravenous. It’s wild, rough; he surges against her, nearly pushing her back onto her rear, his lips swallowing her gasp. His tongue traces her walls and her teeth and laps along her roof, then twists along her own tongue to tug it forward, so much smaller. His mouth is warm, wet, and tastes of the food she took him earlier. This isn’t remotely chaste, like the suitors she’s dared sneak about with. It’s fierce and demanding, and Legolas finds herself pressing forward, trying to meet that unruly _fire_ , until her hands are against his hard chest, sliding up the thick rise of his shoulders. He has none of the softness of elves. When she twists her fingers into his beard, she knows she’s truly doomed herself. By the time he pulls away, she doesn’t want to let him go. 

She only lets him so she can catch her breath. He asks, “We have a deal, then?”

Legolas sneaks one last look out through the bars, then admits to both of them, “Yes.” She might never have another chance with a dwarf, and she’ll be quick. Her hands slide down his chest, over the carved lines of his stomach, down into his lap. His eyes challenge her to _do it_. She hurriedly unties the laces of his breaches, curiosity and _want_ driving her ever faster, until she’s dipping her fingers inside and gasping over what she finds. 

The cock she pulls out of his breaches is _huge_. It pulses, fat and long in her hands, arching up but noticeably hard, red and brown in the darkness. She can see the veins twisting around it and the veiled head, a single bead of white glistening atop the mouth. She wouldn’t even think such a think could fit inside her, except that she’s so very _wet_ from her own daydreams and the stench of him, the promise in his eyes. Elves are malleable, she’s been told, in other places in the dead of night. They’re soft, comfortable creatures, and they can bend to house the heat of other races. 

She lets herself fall to her knees and crawl forward, not wanting to let him go. She climbs over his lap, straddling his thick thighs. She has to press his colossal cock against his stomach to have room to deal with her own tights. She pulls them down just enough to work and isn’t surprised to feel the fabric sticking to her lips, already dripping. It’ll be fast, she tells herself. Just one wild, quick, hard _fuck_ , and then she’ll be gone, and no one will ever have to know. 

Dwalin will know. He watches her hike up her tunic, and he growls, “You’ve got a pretty pussy, Legolas. I wouldn’t mind that in my mouth.” She shivers at the raunchy words but says nothing, trying to resist. She’s trying to be detached. But the lust on his face pleases her nonetheless; at least she isn’t the only one enamoured. 

She hovers over his lap. Somehow, she isn’t embarrassed for this. _He’s_ the disgrace, not sex. She’s used other men before, though discreetly. But Feren and Meludir and even a visiting Elrohir are never so big as this. 

Even when she lines up against him, the blunt tip pries between her lips and makes her gasp. She keeps a hold of his base, then wriggles him around, swiping up and down her slit just to stimulate her more, make the juices bubble up. Dwalin grunts in approval. When she just can’t wait a moment longer, she pushes down, forcing him inside. 

The second he breaches her, she _screams_. She dives forward to bury her face in his shoulder, her mouth open wide against him and ghosting moisture over the fabric; she knows she can’t be loud, but he’s so _enormous_. She can feel the texture of it, not silky smooth like an elf’s but full of bumps and grooves, the veins like ridges that tickle her inner walls. Even with just the head of him inside, she clutches at his towering biceps, needing something to hold on to. Her thighs are shaking. When she lets herself lower more, dropping more of her weight, his girth itself controls the speed; she simply _can’t_ take him any faster. 

She’s so wet for him. It doesn’t hurt, not really, and any soreness she does experience is too swallowed up in the _pleasure_ for her to notice. The sensation of being stretched open is a delightful one, but better still is the rub of him against her, stimulating in every little part it touches. She clenches around him once, just to make him hiss. But she can’t do it again. She concentrates on getting lower, lower, rocking her own body to drag him up against her clit, until she’s sitting in his lap with his entire cock thrust inside her body. 

Trembling around it, Legolas fights to adjust. She doesn’t dare pull off again right away. But he rocks his hips, only gently, and it teases her entrance and jostles him inside her. She lets out a languid moan, and he does it again. He murmurs, “Whatever you might think of dwarves, I’m a noble one. If I were free, I would treat a woman like you right.” The odd thing is that she believes him. 

She kisses him. It’s softer this time, like he knows she’s left delicate from being impaled on him. But the more he kisses her, the more her hunger returns, until she’s meeting the rock of his hips with her own movement. Finally, she lifts up, only letting him out halfway before she slams back down, pressing into his mouth to stifle another scream. The next one is just as harsh, then the next. She takes Dwalin raw in rapid, relentless thrusts, one after another—she might look fragile, but she’s a _warrior_ , and as she grows used to his intrusion, her stamina increases—he feels so _good_ —and she _wants him_ ; it’s everything she thought it would be. She can feel his taut muscles flexing beneath her hands as he tries to rise up and meet her. The lewd slapping sounds of flesh-on-flesh swamp their panting and gasps, and the wet smacking over their kisses. Legolas clutches at his hair, his sides, tosses around his thick neck and arches forward to grind herself into him. Whoever knew dwarves were so good in the proverbial bed.

And still, she wants _more_. The sex takes over her brain, clouds her up and makes her move on mere instinct. She kisses his mouth and runs her fingers through his coarse beard while her other hand snakes around his back, her body bending close to reach. It’s unwise to untie a prisoner, but she can handle one unarmed dwarf, even one that’s got his cock inside her. She could handle a dozen dwarves if she wanted. She just wants this one, and she wants to feel his big hands on her. The Elven chains that bind him are easy for her to unknot and twist aside, drag away. She half expects him to shove her back and force her to hold him down or kick him away and run, but he doesn’t. He grabs onto her ass with ten fat fingers, shoves her down _hard_ and uses his tongue to muffle her shriek of ecstasy. 

He doesn’t stop there. He squeezes her ass, kneading her cheeks through her clothes, then slides up her spine, over the curve of her back, around her trim waist and up her small breasts. He cups her tits easily, one in each hand, squeezes hard into them, and she never even knew she wanted that, but she _does_. She wants to strip all her clothes off and have him touch her _everywhere_ , but this isn’t the time or place and she’s too busy riding him like a wild elk. He grabs at her through her clothes anyway, palming over her warm flesh until her nipples are hard and thrusting forward, chafing against her tunic. The soreness gets lost in the pleasure. Dwalin wraps around her waist again and pulls her so close that she fears she’ll lose all her air. 

But she’s strong and she takes it. She clutches to him all the tighter. She fucks herself on him so hard that it’s dizzying, and then she bites into his bottom lip and it’s his turn to roar. He slams into her, shoves her ass down, thrusts his giant cock inside her and explodes. The rush of hot, sticky seed is a shock—she nearly chokes—but he just keeps coming, filling her up with a torrential flood of it, far beyond what any elf would spill. Suddenly, she isn’t sure how she’ll make it back to her quarters without his release dribbling all down her thighs. If elves and dwarves were compatible with children, she’d be doomed. 

She thinks she’s safe and rides it out. The pool of it is what tips her own orgasm, drags it out of her as his seed bubbles hot around her clit. Her own juices mix with his: a sweet relief that leaves her heady and weightless and utterly blissful: for one moment, her world is white and good. It’s the strangest but best orgasm she’s ever had. By the time she’s coming back to her senses, she thinks she might faint.

She slumps against him instead, panting unusually hard and afraid to sit up lest she flood the cell floor. 

She still expects him to knock her aside and try for escape. But he’s as noble as he claims and lets her rest against him. When she finally has the strength to sit up, he pats her rear and chuckles affectionately, “Thanks, lass. I needed that.”

Legolas doesn’t understand dwarves. But she doesn’t have to. She pushes off of him, hissing at the sudden emptiness that follows, and clenches to try and hold onto what she can. It still spills out of her lips and trickles down her thighs, but she pulls up her tights quickly to catch what she can. She’ll have to change as soon as she reaches her quarters. These ones might have to be thrown out. 

She takes a steadying breath and tells him, “Thorin Oakenshield is fine. He is treated as well as the rest of you and will be so for the duration of his stay here. He, like all of you, will be let out as soon as he apologizes for the rudeness towards my father and truthfully answers my father’s questions.”

Dwalin only nods. His expression has fallen grave again. It’s clear to her that his leader means a great deal to him, but the information is all she can offer. When she settles on the hard ground before him, trying to straighten herself out as best she can, he pulls his legs up and wrests his arms on his knees. He runs his broad tongue over his lips and says, “Anything you can say to your father would be appreciated.”

Legolas pauses her fussing to glance at him. She can’t help but ask, “Is that why you took me?”

“I fucked you because you’re pretty and I’ve been trapped on the road with men for too long. ...And I suppose I’ve always had a thing for servicing royalty. But dwarves have as much right to freedom as elves.”

She sighs. She doesn’t deny it, not anymore. Dwarves are... a lot more than they’ve been given credit for. But she’s trying not to get away from herself, and she doesn’t make any grand promises. She only says, “I will see what I can do.” Her opinion of dwarves isn’t going to radically shift so strongly overnight, but... she wants this one again, and she has no desire for an affair with a prisoner.

She’s stayed long enough. She picks the chains off the ground but doesn’t bother retying his wrists; all the others are free, and their cells are secure. She’ll explain to Tauriel in the morning, neglecting certain parts of the story, of course. 

She climbs to her feet, feeling shaky but satiated. She tries not to look back at him as she slips onto the other side of the bars. She locks his cell again, her loyalties still true. 

But as she walks away, she shamefully thinks of having her father free all but _Dwalin_ , to at least try the suggestion of his mouth.


End file.
